


the art of wu(ing)

by aiyah



Series: the undeniable homiesexuality of higher education [2]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Futile Flirting, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Poems, M/M, Memes, Mutual Pining, Oh My God They Are Idiots, One Brain Cell Only, There's Two Of Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiyah/pseuds/aiyah
Summary: fire is red,water is blue,i think you’re cute,let’s go out soon- some child's poem, apparently[alternatively: the entirety of Boiling Rock University watches from the peanut gallery as two oblivious people pine for each other via poems on the student newspaper gossip column.]
Relationships: Background Sokka/Zuko, Mako/Prince Wu (Avatar)
Series: the undeniable homiesexuality of higher education [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984207
Comments: 53
Kudos: 566





	the art of wu(ing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stan_jaskier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stan_jaskier/gifts).



> for liv (happy late birthday, my friend c: )
> 
> the sequel no one expected
> 
> beta'd by the wonderful wheat :> you have my eternal thanks

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_how i adore you  
_ _and wish for another chance  
_ _and to talk once more  
_ _i cannot count all the ways  
_ _you have touched my mortal life_

_\- oscar_

Bolin’s late.

In other news, it’s raining outside, the birds are asleep, and Mako’s halfway through another cup of lukewarm tea and waiting in the restaurant for his brother to show up. He drums his fingers idly against the table before adjusting his glasses, wondering why it’s taking so long for Bolin to walk over here. Granted, BRU isn’t exactly known for having a small campus (It’s definitely larger than Omashu, for a start), but the fact that Bolin texted Mako an hour ago and _still_ hasn’t shown up is a little disconcerting.

Mako’s brother might not be the most punctual person in the world, but he’d never miss out on a meal.

(Besides, who would even want to pass up a free bowl of pho?)

Another quick glance at his phone. Mako’s just about to leave when the door swings open, and Bolin rushes in with a wave of rain and a look of pure panic on his face. Mako watches his brother slump into the seat across from him, his eyes wide in what can only be described as a look of sheer terror.

Now let’s get one thing straight. While it’s true that Bolin does have a tendency to freak out over the littlest things (loudly and in public, no less), he’s definitely gotten a lot better at handling himself, especially where college is concerned. Mako swears it has something to do with Bolin’s master plan of reworking his public image, now that they’re far away from their small hometown and “living it up” in the big city. (Bolin’s words; not Mako’s.) But even Mako can admit that Bolin looks a bit more panicky than usual, like he’s just gone through the spirit realm and back, barely escaping by the skin of his teeth.

“Did you know?” Bolin coughs hoarsely. His eyes dart back and forth in the near-empty restaurant, hands scrabbling for the cup of tea in front of him. “ _Did you know?_ ”

“Know what?” Mako waves the waitress over and places an order of pho ga for his brother and a bowl of bun bo hue for himself. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _Sokka and Professor Huo_ ,” Bolin shrieks as quietly as any self-respecting nineteen-year-old freshman can shriek in public without risking their sanity. “ _I saw them_. _Together_.”

(Oh, please. Not this again.)

Mako’s single brain cell weeps as the memories of that singing valentine disaster from a few weeks ago resurface. Then the gears start turning, and the thought process starts running.

The red rose. The red-faced professor.

The red-tied soloist.

 _Wu_.

It’s almost enough to make Mako scream out loud. He’s barely gotten over thinking about the incident, but of _course_ his baby brother would have the audacity to bring it up again. Mako flashes back to that one summer night—

 _Nope. Nope. Nope. Not going there_.

( _Good call, brain cell_.)

( _I do what I can_.)

“—and I swear to Agni, I’m probably the dumbest person alive,” Bolin continues, chewing nervously on a raw bean sprout. “So Professor Huo asked me if I called Sokka by his first name, right? You wanna know what I said?”

“What?”

“I literally said, and I quote—” and Bolin looks like he’s about to yeet off of the proverbial cliff, “I said, ‘ _Um, don’t you?_ ’”

Mako takes a moment to digest those words.

The bean sprout disappears into Bolin’s mouth. “Imagine that. Me, a silly little freshman, with the _nerve_ to ask a professor if he called his husband _by his first name_.”

Mako’s still wondering how his brother is actually alive. Professor Huo isn’t the kind of professor to tolerate any sort of talking-back or sharp tongues in class, let alone from a random student. Agni only knows how Bolin managed to stay relatively unscarred by that experience. Speaking of which—Mako does a quick once-over of his brother. Body? Check. Clothes? Slightly wet, but check.

Soul? Bolin’s a freshman, so possibly still intact. Check.

“I’m impressed,” Mako says after their food arrives at the table, two fragrant bowls of broth and noodles that instantly remind him that _hey, dude, you didn’t actually eat anything for lunch except for a KIND bar and a handful of wasabi peas you stole from Asami_. His glasses are fogging up, and he pulls them off and hangs them on his shirt. “I can’t believe Professor Huo didn’t verbally eviscerate you for your attitude.”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way,” Bolin retorts, dropping a handful of bean sprouts and basil into his bowl before drizzling the entire affair with a generous squeeze of sriracha. “But yeah. Professor Huo’s definitely terrifying. Makes me wonder how he managed to bag Sokka in the first place.”

That question lingers in Mako’s mind throughout the rest of the dinner and long into the night as he hurries to finish up his discussion post. Ever since the rumors of Professor Huo and Professor Qanik had begun circulating throughout campus, Mako’s pondered how exactly the two of them met. And how _did_ Professor Huo manage to get with Professor Qanik? As far as Mako can tell (in the limited interactions he’s had with Professor Qanik, which is a big fat zero), Professor Qanik’s one of the chillest, friendliest people on campus. There are people who practically camp out the day before BRCourseOpen updates for advanced registration in order to get a shot at any one of his MEME classes.

Meanwhile, Professor Huo’s staked out a prime position in the core requirements with his intro Shakespeare class, a literal trial by fire that most—if not all—of the lit majors have to endure during their time at BRU.

(Mako doesn’t think that Professor Huo is as scary as everyone makes him out to be. Yes, the professor can be a bit tough and gnarly around the edges, but he does put in a lot of effort into creating challenging, yet engaging coursework for his students.)

But the question still remains: so how, exactly, did Professor Qanik and Professor Huo get together?

(Mako is now seriously considering switching his thesis topics from _the duality of human nature_ to _opposites attract_. He has a prime example right in front of him, after all.)

But Mako isn’t dumb—or wishing for a death sentence from his thesis advisor—and he tucks that half-baked idea into the deepest part of his mind when he goes to Professor Huo’s office hours the next day.

“So we’re moving on to sound poetry for next class, right?” Mako looks up at his professor. “And we’d also need our discussion posts ready by then.”

Professor Huo crosses his arms. “Of course.”

Mako scribbles into his notebook. “Oh, and by the way, I was wondering if I could ask you a question? It’s a bit more on the personal side.”

“Of course.” Professor Huo nurses a mug of green tea. “What can I help you with, Mister Zhang?”

“How exactly did you and Professor Qanik get together?”

Professor Huo chokes.

(And _of course_ , Mako—in his infinite wisdom—had opted out of asking a normal, perfectly acceptable question about his thesis draft deadlines and decided, instead, to casually drop his wrecking ball of a thought without even realizing it.)

The fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and Mako’s halfway through shoving his notebook into his backpack and muttering a string of choked apologies when Professor Huo finishes coughing and places his mug back on his desk with shaking fingers.

“Haiku battle.” The professor’s voice is monotone.

Mako pauses, his entire body freezing in place like one of those statues you’d see at a museum, except his mouth is definitely hanging open. “Huh?”

“He wooed me—or my uncle rather.” Professor Huo lets out a deep sigh. “With a haiku battle.”

“ _Huh_?” Mako says again. He can’t believe the words coming out of his professor’s mouth. Since when did an ancient Japanese form of short poetry Mako learned in elementary school have anything to do with his professor marrying his husband?

Professor Huo glances at the clock, then at the closed door, and back at the clock again. Mako watches as his professor pulls off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “I trust that I can keep your confidence in the matter, Mister Zhang?”

“Um, sure? I guess?” At this point, Mako still has no idea what’s going on, but he’s pretty sure that he’s still on good terms with his professor. He’s taken so many classes with him, after all. (Hell, Professor Huo is his _thesis advisor_ , for Agni’s sake. How much more personal could you get?)

So Professor Huo clasps his hands together and begins. “It was back when I was still a master’s student in university. My father, as you may know—” and here, the professor gestures vaguely off into the distance, “—he did some things, and I ended up in Taiwan to escape his infamy, right?”

Now that he mentions it—Mako has a vague memory of Asami telling him about some Ozai Huo running off with some money from some embezzlement scheme some years back. “And then?”

“That’s where I met Sokka.” Professor Huo smiles slightly, his voice soft. ( _So he does refer to his husband by his first name_. Mako reminds himself to tell Bolin about this later.) “Can you imagine? At a hot spring in Taiwan, no less. I was desperately interested in this man. And he was so charming and kind—how could I not fall for someone like him?”

(Mako has the horrible, sinking realization that this confession is turning out to be less of a simple love story and more of some form of cathartic therapy for his normally uptight professor.)

“Two weeks later, I received a call from my uncle begging me to come home.” Professor Huo shakes his head. “I couldn’t bear to leave Sokka after all the time we spent together, so I left him in the middle of the night and drove to the airport, only to have him come chasing after me in a motor scooter and confessing his undying love for me in the middle of the customs check.”

 _Is any of this going to show up on a test? Should I be taking notes?_ The story is getting more and more absurd by the minute, and all Mako can do is nod desperately as he tries to keep track of everything in his mind. (He’s been doing pretty good—up until the motor scooter part, that is. Now Mako’s just imagining that scene from _3 Idiots_ where Rancho and Pia are scootering straight into a hospital with Raju’s paralyzed father sandwiched in between them.)

( _Didn’t you-know-who make you watch—_ )

( _Shut up, brain cell_.)

( _Fine_.)

“Somehow we managed to fly back to my childhood home, where my now-husband proceeded to ask for my hand in marriage. This was, of course, only after two weeks. He swore that he would love no other like he would love me.” Professor Huo pauses to take a sip of his tea. “And then my uncle challenged him to a haiku battle.”

“I thought Professor Qanik was an engineering professor?” Mako hopes his voice isn’t as confused as it sounds.

“He is, but apparently he has a deep appreciation for the arts.” Professor Huo is shaking his head again. “They ended up switching languages halfway through. You can imagine my shock when I realized that Sokka was actually keeping up with my uncle. I didn’t even know that he could speak Japanese.”

The rest of the story goes by in a blur as Professor Huo mentions how Professor Qanik barely managed to scrape by with his last haiku (“he was on the verge of six syllables in the last line when I kissed him to shut him up”), with Mako retaining just enough information to marinate into juicy gossip for the rest of the krew before he mumbles an excuse about a club event and hightails it out of his professor’s office.

Mako is literally speechless after that fascinating, yet altogether confusing turn of events during these office hours. He hadn’t expected his professor to go on a passionate rant about his husband, for one, and he’s still trying to comprehend how a haiku battle could possibly lead to a marriage. Mako scratches his head as he walks home, wondering if poetry can possibly be as useful as Professor Huo makes it out to be.

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_you smile like the sun  
_ _so bright, so warm it blinds me  
_ _i hide in shadows_

_\- oscar_

A knock. “Door’s open, come on in!”

“Uh, Sokka?”

“Oh, hey Wu!” Papers shuffling. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you about something?”

“Of course! Was it something about the galaxy brain phenomenon for today’s class? Because I remember that I could’ve explained the idea of pocket universes better, and—”

“It’s not about today’s class, actually.”

“Really? Well, I’m all ears.”

A pause. “I was wondering if you could tell me how to properly court a guy.”

Awkward silence. “Huh?”

“I mean, you managed to get Professor Huo, didn’t you? Which is like—”

“Hold on, hold on.” A clap. “I’m pretty sure this is violating some professor-professor confidentiality agreement or something, or like a professor-student courtesy thing.”

“But—”

“And besides, wouldn’t it make more sense to ask someone your age?”

“You’re not that much older.”

“Yeah, but I’m an adult suffering from crippling student debt, and you’re an enthusiastic college student.”

“Please? You’re the only one I could turn to.”

“Are you sure?” Another pause. “This isn’t because of the fact that I happen to be your project advisor, now is it?”

“No?”

“Okay, okay.” More shuffling. “So you want to know how to woo a guy.”

“Pretty much.”

“And you want to know how I was able to sweep my lovely husband off of his feet.”

“I mean, the general gist is okay?”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” The room goes quiet. “It’s all about poetry.”

“Poetry? Is that how you got Zuko?”

“That, and a little help from my little friend.”

“Who?”

“ _Who_ , indeed.” A chuckle and some rustling. “Take a look at this.”

A snort. “Are you serious?”

“Duolingo all the way, Wu. That owl don’t lie.”

“So you’re saying that I should learn Japanese, then.”

“Look, I’m not telling you to learn Japanese. I’m just telling you how the ancient art of haiku happened to help me.”

“But I have no idea where or how to start!”

“Hm, let me see.” More papers rustling over the desk. “Let me ask you: how often do you read BRUH?”

“BRUH?”

“Yeah, BRUH. How often do you read it?”

“Not very often. Why?”

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_i wish for courage  
_ _to confess my thoughts to you  
_ _my tongue is silent_

_\- oscar_

Like all struggling student-run newspapers all across the world, the Boiling Rock University Herald (or BRUH, as the kids call it nowadays) has its highlights—or in BRUH’s case, a single highlight. “Whole Lava Love” had started out as an anonymous gossip column between a group of seniors years ago as a way to talk about who’s hot, who’s not, and who’s in a tough spot. It’s definitely simmered down in the last few years or so, the gossip becoming more tepid than a cup of lukewarm tea from the teashop in the middle of campus, but something—or someone, rather—is single handedly bringing it back: Oscar.

(Or to be more specific, the scintillating saga of Oscar’s poetry.)

You see, Oscar and their poems had popped up a few months ago on Whole Lava Love, in between the usual chatter about so-and-so TA being caught in the department office with a professor and the occasional tidbit about some distinguished faculty member seen lighting up in the back of the engineering quad before a midterm.

It had been quite mundane at first, with Oscar pining after some unnamed person through simple love poems—that is, until that fateful valentine’s edition where Oscar had let slip the name “Alfred” in one of their submissions and the gates of curiosity swung wide open. That single act had managed to catapult Whole Lava Love into a new phase of notoriety, with people actually reading the BRUH website for updates on Oscar and their intrepid quest towards true love.

If you ask any BRU student (or any BRU student who reads BRUH, actually), they definitely all have their own opinions about Oscar and his poetry.

“Honestly? I’m not gonna lie. I feel bad for the guy. Get a life.”

“I think it’s actually quite sweet. If only my boyfriend would write poetry like that about me.”

“Man, I just gotta say. Oscar be wildin’.”

“It’s cute, but you know what’s cuter? My sister told me that one of the pledges in Lambda saw Professor Qanik and Professor Huo—”

Needless to say, most students’ reactions are a bit mixed. But it’s clear that whoever Oscar really is, they’re actually pretty good at poetry. (Or at least they’ve been improving.) Deductive reasoning points to someone in the lit department (after all, could you imagine one of the tech bros in engineering writing poetry instead of Python?). That, and if you do a bit of digging around (or if you’re in the know, _you know_ ), you’ll come to one reasonable conclusion about Oscar’s identity.

 _Sweet Agni, this was a terrible idea_. Mako takes one look at Whole Lava Love (in the privacy and safety of his bedroom, no less) and breaks out into a cold sweat. It’s been a while since he’s actually written a haiku (of all things), and he isn’t particularly proud of this one, either. Haikus are a lot harder than their simple structures make them out to be, and Mako wonders how Professor Qanik managed to learn how to weaponize the innocuous-yet-intrepid 5-7-5 syllable structure and use it to win Professor Huo’s heart.

Mako’s shitty haiku continues to plague his mind, and he knows that he should stop writing things like this and submitting them to Whole Lava Love, but it’s pretty much the only way he’s able to unleash his inner frustration about the entire Wu thing.

Wu.

(Oh, yikes.)

Mako facepalms. Sometimes, he doesn’t know why he had ever thought it was a good idea to continue burning a torch for that radiant classmate of his, the one who lived down the hall from him in freshman year, the one who dragged Mako out of his dorm room to a silly little mixer at the beginning of freshman orientation and never looked back. Wu had smiled at him the entire night, a ridiculously adorable grin blooming on his face while he swayed unsteadily on his feet after taking one too many shots, Mako catching him in the nick of time.

Mako can still remember the feeling of Wu grabbing his hand and dragging him into some random frat house, can still hear the thumping bass as Wu held their hands together while they danced, can still feel the pinprick of warmth on his face when they sat in the common room watching _3 Idiots_ on the crappy TV before Wu kissed him on the cheek gently, giggling as he ran back to his room.

(Mako had touched his cheek afterwards, wondering if it was possible for someone to spontaneously combust.)

He’d been meaning to talk to Wu after that night. To talk about anything, really, if only to give himself an excuse to talk to his ~~crush~~ peppy hallmate. But Fate had other plans, and the sudden reality of midterm season had hit with all the grace of an oncoming freight train. Mako had found himself figuratively drowning under a maelstrom of midterms and deadlines that had him up at all hours of the night struggling to race against the Canvas submission wizard. (Note to self: econ had been a _terrible idea_. Lit was a much better choice. Mako would rather write a ten-page paper hyperanalyzing the meaning behind Schwitter’s _Ursonate_ over taking another macroeconomics midterm again).

By the time Mako resurfaced from the depths of hell, the school year had already ended and Wu was off doing an internship Raava-knows-where and Mako was left alone, pinching his arm and pondering if that one night had all been a dream.

Oscar had been Asami’s idea, weirdly enough. Yes, she did poke fun at her ex-boyfriend, especially with how Mako secretly attended glee club performances _just for fun_ —not that Asami had anything against the glee club, but she knew that Mako wasn’t the kind of person who normally listens to acapella music (or any music, actually). But Asami also saw how Mako’s eyes soften whenever he talked about the glee club, how a faint blush rose in his cheeks on the rare occasion when Wu walked past them in the library with his friends, how Mako goes tongue-tied when Wu waved at them. So Asami made up her mind that if there’s one thing she was going to do before she graduated from BRU (besides finishing her thesis and finding a job, in that order), it was to get Mako out of this perpetual cycling of pining and moping over the umber-haired international relations and classics double major who just so happened to be the focal point of the glee club.

“You know Whole Lava Love?” Asami had asked one day, casually flipping over a paper copy of the newspaper in front of her.

Mako had looked entirely too confused, nose wrinkling as he reached up to adjust his glasses. “Huh?”

“ _Whole Lava Love was started by two BRU undergrads years ago as an opportunity for people to anonymously confess their deepest secrets or spill the latest gossip_ ,” Asami had read out loud over the hum of chatter in the teashop.

“Anonymously,” she repeated for emphasis, watching as Mako’s eyes widened imperceptibly in response.

(Oscar’s first poem had landed on the top of Whole Lava Love the next day.)

The whole idea of Oscar is a bit silly. But to be fair, Mako had _definitely_ been a little tipsy that night when he decided to yeet his poem into the ethersphere. He’s always been a fan of Wilde’s works, and Oscar should be innocuous enough, as far as pennames go. Sure, he’s almost messed up and spilled his secrets to the entirety of the BRU community (that goddamn valentine’s edition, by Agni’s right foot), but it’s going pretty well, all things considered.

Oscar gives Mako the perfect excuse to be angsty on main without giving away his identity, and _obviously_ , no one’s going to expect the bespectacled, scary-looking lit major to be the one behind all that mushy poetry that leaves a saccharine taste in Mako’s mouth every time his eyes brush over his own writing. It’s like a different form of secondhand cringe, except that Mako’s both the writer and the observer at the same time.

Obviously no one’s going to find out about who Oscar really is.

 _Obviously_.

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_when you said hello  
_ _the clouds lifted from my thoughts  
_ _i can see again_

_\- oscar_

\- - - - - -

_from patroclus, with love:_

_i have a friend, his name i shall not say  
_ _for fear he will find out my secret thoughts  
_ _and if i speak them, they will go astray  
_ _and everything i’ve done is all for naught_

_he’s like a statue, marble-grey and pale,  
_ _with features chiseled out of the smooth rock  
_ _he’s always there, besides me, without fail  
_ _yet i sense his heart’s put under a lock_

_and key. i cannot open this old chest  
_ _to seek the hidden treasures from within  
_ _but rest assured, you know i’ll try my best  
_ _until he understands the place i’m in._

_i wonder how much longer this will take  
_ _will he fall first? or will i crash and break?_

If Oscar’s the one thing keeping Whole Lava Love piping hot, then Patroclus—Patroclus, uh. Definitely keeping the volcano up and erupting.

 _Who is Patroclus?_ One might ask. If you say something along the lines of “ _Achilles’ lover_ ”, you’d be correct. (Please, it’s practically one of the greatest, most tragic love stories since, like, ever. A man donning the armor of the most famous heroes of the Trojan War just to galvanize the troops, only to die at the hands of the enemy before being avenged by his lover? Talk about Drama with a capital D. Those ancient Greeks were definitely on to something.)

And if your answer is something more like, “ _another sap that’s pining on main in Whole Lava Love_ ,” well, you’d be even more correct (if that was possible). Patroclus’ poetry is more of a recent addition, the first entry sandwiched in between gossip about the pai sho team cheating in the championships and the regular tabloid news about so-and-so going out with who-and-who (the names aren’t super important, but the gossip is). Patroclus is even more dramatic than Oscar (like, a sonnet is definitely overkill at this point, _right?_ ), their poetics jumping word gymnastics in everyone’s heads.

(Deductive reasoning paints a fluorescent orange arrow over the lit department and circles the department multiple times. Who else would have the time to come up with such intricately-composed poems in the first place?)

(Deductive reasoning would _also_ like to inform everyone that there is a statistically significant chance that Oscar and Patroclus probably have the hots for each other, but: 1) Whole Lava Love is anonymous, and 2) if that were true, then these two people have got to be the most idiotic people ever to grace the BRU campus because _hello? Who else would flirt in such an old-fashioned manner?_ Get a private horse-drawn carriage, you two.)

(Deductive reasoning would also, _also_ like to say that no one, not even the spirits themselves, could’ve planned out a better soap opera backdrop than this. It’s straight out of your grandmother’s favorite telenovela, except there’s less dramatic screeching and more pent-up angst. At first glance, at least.)

And if you’re wondering what Mako’s thinking about all this? Well, Mako thinks that Patroclus writes with all the wit and wisdom of someone well beyond their years, and the sonnet—the sonnet is actually surprisingly good, especially if Patroclus turns out to be a student. But more importantly, to be quite honest—Mako’s confused. Sure, he’s taken a few stats classes at his time in BRU, but no amount of probability principles can tell him how or why someone else would also be writing and submitting poetry to Whole Lava Love at the same time. It’s just too much of a coincidence. There’s a little part inside Mako’s heart that is desperately clinging onto the hope that he—

 _Time out. We’re not doing this right now_.

Unfortunately, while Asami doesn’t say anything to Mako about the whole Patroclus affair, she does make her opinions on the mysterious poets known, especially when the krew head out to lunch together one blustery spring day. In between bites of chicken katsu and ramen, the conversation shifts, predictably, into the direction of campus gossip.

“And I _swear_ ,” Asami waves her chopsticks in the air, “I swear that _everyone_ knows that those two have the hots for each other.”

Korra looks up at her girlfriend, her mouth stuffed with curry. “Professor Huo and Sokka?”

“No, not them. Everyone already knows that.” Asami reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her girlfriend’s ear. “I’m talking about the two dummies in Whole Lava Love.”

Mako nearly drops his chopsticks in surprise.

“Oh, the poetry people?” Bolin nibbles on his udon. “The two dudes writing poems to each other?”

“We don’t know if they’re _dudes_ , dude.” Korra pokes him in the shoulder. “They could literally be anyone at this point.”

Asami picks up a gyoza. “ _Anyways_ , I’m pretty sure that these two people are probably in love with each other but just don’t realize it.”

“Hm.” There’s a part of Mako that’s dreading to hear the answer.

“I mean, who else would be nerdy enough to use a gossip column to flirt with another person?” Korra pipes up. “It reminds me of those missed connection-thingamajigs on Craigslist or something.”

“That, and my flawless deductive reasoning.” Asami shakes her head. “But that’s also a good point. _Who_ would do something like that?”

Mako is _this_ close to digging an actual hole under his chair and hiding in there for the remainder of his undergraduate career. While it’s true that writing poetry anonymously is a bit...antiquated, he doesn’t think that it’s _that_ bad.

“I actually think the poems are pretty good.” Bolin slurps up a spoonful of broth. “Like, y’all know that I’m not actually a lit major or anything, but I think the poems are cute.”

Asami nods in agreement. “They _are_ very well-written. I wonder who wrote them.”

 _Who, indeed_.

Mako’s ramen is threatening to make a reappearance, but he swallows down what’s left of his pride and pushes the thought of Whole Lava Love out of his mind for now. He mindlessly scrolls through his email on his phone, pausing only when a calendar notification pops up: _Meeting w/ Prof. Huo @ 1:45 PM_.

Oh, shit.

Mako’s been so caught up in his classes and his Oscar alter ego that he’s completely forgotten that he scheduled a meeting with his professor for today. It had all started when Professor Huo had emailed him about an “opportunity” and if Mako would be interested in participating. Mako had said yes, of course (since when would he ever say _no_ to his thesis advisor?) and promptly forgotten about the entire thing until now.

“Uh, I gotta go, have a meeting.” Mako scoots out of his chair and grimaces. “You can just charge me later on Venmo, if that’s cool?”

“Yeah, yeah, we gotchu.” Korra waves her hand. “Good luck with Professor Huo!”

“But I didn’t even say who it was—” Mako protests, and before Korra can respond, he’s already hurrying out of the restaurant, his internal GPS mapping out the quickest route from his current location to his professor’s office with minimal chances of bodily harm from any bikers or other pedestrians. He barely makes it to the lit department on time, barreling through Professor Huo’s office door with all the elegance of the bull in its proverbial china shop.

“So nice of you to show up, Mister Zhang,” Professor Huo calls out from behind his desk, and Mako’s brain cell takes a moment to digest the fact that there’s _someone else_ sitting in front of his professor. That someone else turns around, and Mako finds himself teetering on the edge of hyperventilating.

It’s Wu.

Or someone who happens to look a lot like Wu, because Mako refuses to believe for even a single second that Wu’s the one sitting at Professor Huo’s desk. Mako’s not dumb—he’s pretty sure that there isn’t any overlap between international relations and lit, or classics and lit, or any combination at all because he’s never seen Wu in the vicinity of the lit department.

(Then again, Mako hasn’t really seen much of Wu in the first place, so there’s that.)

“—Mister Zhang? Would you like to take a seat?” Professor Huo gestures to the empty chair next to Wu, and Mako does his best to correct his shitty posture when he slides into the seat. He stares ahead at the garish-looking art hanging on the wall behind his professor’s head. Sitting next to Wu gives Mako the perfect excuse to stare, but he’s not about to do that in front of his professor.

“Let me cut to the chase.” Professor Huo clasps his hands together. “Mister Shah came to me with the most interesting proposition today, specifically with regards to the glee club.” He gestures to Wu. “Mister Shah, would you like to explain?”

Silence.

Mako takes the chance to sneak a quick peek at Wu before anyone notices. Wu still has the same neatly styled hair from two years ago, with a few curls making their escape and dangling over his forehead. Wu’s eyes are bright and unflinching, and it takes Mako a few more seconds to realize how Wu is staring unabashedly at _him_.

“Mister Shah?” And just like that, the moment shatters like glass at Professor Huo’s words. Mako immediately flinches and faces forward, wondering if Wu is doing the same thing.

“Oh! Oh, yes!” Wu’s voice is wobbly and high, a far cry from his normally suave tone during glee club performances. “So, yeah. The glee club is gearing up for our next show, and we—and by we, I mean me, haha—me, I’m the one who’s, like, writing for the show this time? And I was thinking if, y’know—I mean, I came to Professor Huo because I had intro to Shakespeare with him in freshman year, and we were—I mean me, I was—”

“I believe that what Mister Shah is trying to say is that he’d like help with figuring out how to incorporate Shakespeare into the show,” Professor Huo cuts in, saving Wu from stuttering his way through the rest of his request. The thought of Wu—Wu, of all people—stuttering is puzzling, but Mako supposes that Professor Huo does tend to have that effect on people.

“And after he emailed me about it, I thought of you.” Professor Huo turns his glowering gaze towards Mako before turning and smiling at Wu. “My protégé here—”

 _Huh?_ “I’m not your protégé—”

Professor Huo continues, “My _protégé_ here is an excellent poet. Top marks across the board, with a speciality in the comedies.”

 _Comedies, my ass_. Mako snorts. He’s definitely more interested in the tragedies, especially _King Lear_ or _Macbeth_. (Now that he thinks of it, there’s definitely a reason why he’s totally on board with the idea of tragic love.)

“Mister Zhang, I believe that you mentioned to me once about how you were considering a career in playwriting?”

 _I have literally never mentioned playwriting as a job_ —Mako thinks, but one look at Professor Huo’s terrifying grin is enough for him to swallow those words back down his throat. “Oh, yeah. Playwriting. As a career. A playwriting career. A career in playwriting.”

“I trust that this is a fantastic opportunity, yes?” Professor Huo smiles at him, and Mako’s gaze darts around the room until it lands on Wu. Wu, with his dopey smile and shining eyes. Wu, with such an imploring look on his face—how could anyone say no to a face like that?

Mako can’t stop the words this time. “Oh, definitely. Of course. One hundred percent.”

“Excellent. Now that the matter is settled, I wish you good luck and godspeed on your performance, Mister Shah. And Mister Zhang—” Professor Huo pauses. “I hope that you’ll be a bit more articulate when you’re working with Mister Shah?”

With a sweep of his hand, Professor Huo dismisses the two of them from his office.

(Hold on, pause for a moment. Freeze frame. _Right there_.)

(This is the exact moment where Mako realizes he’s played himself into quite a terrible position.)

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_when you take my hand  
_ _i remember that one night  
_ _how long will this last?_

_\- oscar_

\- - - - - -

_from patroclus, with love:_

_his eyes, they are so bright and clear to me  
_ _like amber glass hidden beneath the sand  
_ _his voice reminds me of the open sea  
_ _so rough, yet gentle all across the land_

_his smile, the sun itself cannot compare  
_ _so bright and fleeting, like a shooting star  
_ _it blinds me so, but i am unaware  
_ _i am content to watch him from afar_

_he holds me tight, his hands, they are steady  
_ _the warmth engulfs me, saves me from my fear  
_ _he is, without a doubt, precious to me  
_ _i can’t imagine life without him here_

_alas—i think his interests lie elsewhere  
_ _i sit alone, and shed a single tear_

Two weeks into the project and Mako wants _out_.

It’s not because Wu is a terrible person to work with (he’s actually fantastic at the whole collaboration-thing, a surprising revelation when Mako shows up to their second meeting only to realize that Wu’s actually come up with a vague outline of the show), and it’s not because of the absolutely terrible working title of the show that has Mako physically wince every time he reads it (“My Milkshake(speare) Brings All The Boys To The Yard.” Really?).

No, it’s probably because Mako freezes up whenever Wu whirls into the room, and it takes him a good fifteen minutes to thaw himself out before he smiles nervously at Wu and starts to actually do any sort of work.

(This happens _every single time_.)

When Mako freezes up the first time they meet up, it’s understandable. (Can you give the boy a break? He’s obviously super intimidated by being in the mere proximity of his crush.) The torch is certainly burning brighter than before, especially when Wu looks at Mako _like that_ , all sparkly-eyed and ready to tackle the project. Working with Wu starts off as one of the most awkward things Mako’s ever done in his short twenty-one years on the planet. And it probably doesn’t help that Wu has a tendency to smile and giggle at every single thing that Mako has to say, about anything, his laughter bouncing around the common room and sounding like a literal symphony to Mako’s ears.

When Mako freezes during their second session, it takes him a good while to untwist his tongue from the roof of his mouth to say something— _anything_ , really—about the task at hand. He had to resort to gesturing awkwardly at his notes and nodding emphatically whenever Wu asked about adding something to the program—and promptly went home with a crick in his neck that lasted for two days until Korra took pity on him and worked some sort of chiropractic magic that had Mako’s shoulders numb for a few hours.

(Needless to say, working with Wu is definitely having an effect on Mako.)

Asami’s eyebrows rise when she sees Mako and Wu working in the library together and realizes just how _cheerful_ the normally dreary Mako is, how he pulls out Wu’s chair for him when Wu sits down, how he takes the time to write everything out in his notebook before showing it to Wu. (And that’s _really_ saying something, considering the fact that Mako’s handwriting rivals that of a seasoned doctor, an illegible scrawl that even Asami—for all of her deduction and sleuthing skills—can barely decipher on a good day. She wonders how much time Mako’s spent perfecting his handwriting for a few words of praise from the other boy.)

Korra realizes it, too, especially when Mako comes into The Jasmine Dragon _alone_ one day (and emphasis on the _alone_ ; Mako would never be caught dead in the teashop by himself) and asks for a takeout order of croissants and lemon loaf, two things that Mako _never_ eats. Curious, Korra slides in an extra-large slice of almond poppyseed cake for good measure, her fingers flying over the register as she laughs at Mako’s sheepish grin.

“I thought you didn’t like our lemon loaf?” Korra snorts as she hands over the box. “Something about it being both too sour and sweet for your taste?”

“It’s not for me,” Mako retorts, face coloring. “It’s—it’s, uh—it’s for a friend.”

“Uh huh.” Korra isn’t convinced in the slightest. “And would I happen to know this _friend?_ ”

(The glare Mako shoots her as he leaves is enough to boost Korra’s serotonin for the rest of the day.)

It gets even worse when Bolin—dear, sweet Bolin—catches on, not that it would actually take a university professor to notice just how much Mako’s been pining after his crush. Bolin knows that his brother’s dated a few people in his life, but he’s never shown quite as much interest in any of them—until now. He realizes just how bad Mako has it when he comes home from his last class, only to see his brother standing in their living room, a can of Febreze in one hand and a handheld Dyson in the other.

“What in the everloving fuck are you doing?” Bolin screeches over the smell of fresh laundry dangling in the room.

“Can’t you see? _I’m cleaning_ ,” Mako yells back, a tornado of dust settling over every single surface in their tiny apartment. “ _Wu’s coming over_.”

“ _Who?_ ”

“ _Wu_.”

“ _Who?_ ” Bolin can barely hear his brother over the noisy whirring of the vacuum cleaner.

“ _Never mind_.” Mako waves the Febreze in his hand. “ _I got this_.”

The entire situation is a bit concerning, especially considering the fact that their apartment is usually off the charts on the Richter scale of chaos. Sure, Mako’s a pretty tidy guy as far as his bedroom is concerned, but the living room? Complete disaster.

(Later, when Bolin stumbles out of his room for a quick bathroom break, he’s surprised to see Mako sitting in the living room with a preppy-looking guy next to him. Bolin rubs his eyes feverishly. In the entire year that they’ve been living together, Bolin has never seen Mako invite anyone over, let alone a study buddy.)

And Mako? Well, he’s just thriving at this point, writing out sticky note after sticky note of scribbles while annotating his dogeared copy of _The Norton Shakespeare_ from sophomore year and listening to Wu gossip about the latest things happening in the glee club. He blushes when Wu talks about how nice his handwriting is, smiles when Wu thanks him for bringing him lemon loaf from The Jasmine Dragon, even breathes a sigh of relief when Wu mentions how clean the apartment looks when he comes over for a study break.

Sometimes, Mako wonders if he should mention anything about The Night™ from freshman year, if he should just take the leap and tell Wu how he’s been feeling all this time—but the words always crumble to dust in his throat before he can get them out.

 _Don’t do it_ , his brain cell echoes in his mind. _Don’t do it. I bet you’ll regret it_.

And you know what? Mako’s brain cell is probably right. The last thing he needs to do is to wreck whatever newly-kindled friendship he has with Wu right now. So Mako’s just going to keep his thoughts to himself.

(If only things actually work that smoothly.)

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_you are beautiful  
_ _radiant, a pure clear soul  
_ _that yearns to be loved_

_\- oscar_

\- - - - - -

_from patroclus, with love:_

_i feel as if you truly understand  
_ _the thoughts that rush inside my head all day  
_ _the pressure of a future not yet planned  
_ _yet looming over me, right in my way_

_i never thought that it would come to this  
_ _that you and i would ever talk once more  
_ _your voice! it warms my heart like the sun’s kiss  
_ _and pushes me to take the plunge and soar_

_you may not know the things that i’ve gone through  
_ _you may not know the challenges i face  
_ _i do aspire to be like you, so true  
_ _a man who faces everything with grace_

_i yearn to be with you, that much is clear  
_ _but your response? i do not know, i fear._

A few study sessions into their project, Oscar and Patroclus are still sending sappy poetry into Whole Lava Love, and there’s actually an ongoing betting pool about how long it’ll take for those two idiots to realize that they’re actually writing poetry for each other.

(Well, more like _several_ betting pools. Besides the “will they/won’t they” betting pool, there’s also the “who are they?” one—popular with the campus sleuths—and the “how long until they realize?” one, generally reserved for the paparazzi itching for something other than the regular titterings about Professor Huo and Professor Qanik.)

(Asami’s already hedged her bets in all three pools, Korra’s got a pretty sizable chunk invested in “how long until they realize?”, and Bolin’s still trying to figure out how to get in on these betting pools in the first place.)

To be quite honest, Mako’s pretty oblivious to the fact that his friends have money cashed in on how long it’ll take for him to slip up and reveal his true identity. But writing a never-ending, one-sided soliloquy from Oscar’s perspective is getting a bit tiresome, to say the least. Sometimes, Mako thinks that writing poetry is actually making the entire situation that much worse. (It certainly doesn’t help that WebMD doesn’t have any helpful treatments or remedies relating to chronic pining.)

The more Mako works with Wu, the more he begins to realize what Wu’s going through, the pressures he’s facing at BRU and at home.

“IR was never my first choice, y’know,” Wu says when they finish picking through a particularly gnarly section of _The Tempest_. “But my father insisted, and BRU has one of the best programs around.” He flips a page. “Plus, I don’t have to go home.”

“But why?” Mako’s always been a little homesick, and while having Bolin around is a welcome and familiar comfort, he still has the urge to go back home once in a while.

“My great aunt,” Wu offers as a response, eyes still focused on the page in front of him. “Scary lady. Abysmal leader. Terribly selfish. Father always said I inherited her worst traits. Did you know that she ate bear bile once just to prove that she could afford it? And don’t even get me started on her thirty-step skincare routine. She comes out looking exactly the same. And she treats everyone like shit, even her own family. Makes me want to be a better person, just so that I don’t have to think about her anymore.”

He pauses. “Oh, I’m not rambling too much, am I? People always tell me I have a tendency to overshare things, but it kinda just, y’know—” he waves a hand around his face, “—kinda just comes with the territory. Raava knows why I ever thought I could be a diplomat. I’d be spilling secrets even before the other person introduced themselves.”

Mako doesn’t say anything after that, just listens as Wu talks about his home life, about how he’s always been taught to treat everything like some big pai sho game and how one wrong move can damage his entire reputation. Wu talks about how he used to play around without a care in the world until his father put his foot down and declared that Wu was going to carry on the family legacy, whether he wanted to or not.

“Glee club’s the only way I stay sane, not gonna lie.” Wu shrugs. “I actually don’t know what the fuck I’m doing half the time, y’know? Just going from class to class, making sure my GPA doesn’t end up in the tank, that kinda stuff, ya feel?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Mako croaks. He pulls off his glasses to polish them before putting them back on. “That sounds tough.”

“It’s actually not as bad as it sounds!” Wu laughs, but Mako can hear the edge in his voice. “All I gotta do is graduate, hand my diploma to my father, and bam! Next head of Shah & Company, at your service.”

“You don’t sound super happy about that.”

“Well, yeah.” Wu slumps in his chair. “Not really. That’s why I picked classics as my other major. Kinda like a big _fuck you_ to my father cuz he definitely thinks classics is a ‘frivolous major’ or whatever.”

Mako arches an eyebrow. “Color me impressed.”

“Sure, what color?” Wu’s blinking at him.

( _He’s going to be the death of you_.)

( _Thank you for that lovely reminder, brain cell_.)

( _That’s all part of the deal, my man_.)

The two of them sit and study for a little while longer, until Wu’s stomach grumbles audibly and he stares up at Mako with pleading eyes.

The words rush out of Mako’s mouth before he’s able to do a coherency check. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

(Shitshitshit.)

“Oh—oh, uh. Yeah, sure!” Wu perks up, hands fumbling as he shuffles his laptop away into his bag. “That—uh, that—great idea, actually! Got anywhere you wanna check out? There’s this absolutely amazing bistro, but it’s more downtown. And there’s also this spectacular sushi place a few blocks away, but I’m not sure if raw fish is your thing, cuz one time I took my friends there and—”

“Sushi sounds great,” Mako blurts out, partly because he’s freaking out at the possibility of eating with Wu, which leads into its own thought process of: eating with Wu → eating _alone_ with Wu → eating _alone_ with Wu _in public_ → Agni hold his left foot, _is this a fucking date?_

(Raava have mercy on Mako’s pining heart.)

Not even twenty minutes into his spider roll, and Mako swears that his heart is beating at a rhythm that is so irregular, he might want to swing by student health services for a quick check to make sure he isn’t actually perishing in the mere presence of Wu. Wu, who’s deftly ordering plate after plate of nigiri and maki and even a beautiful bowl of chirashi that comes in a rainbow of colors, crimson tuna layered against sunset salmon over a bed of fragrant rice. Mako’s not even sure how he’s going to finish it all, let alone pay for his half of the meal. (He hopes that he has enough left in his checkings account.)

When the check finally comes, Mako watches as Wu slides a card into the holder before handing it off to a server. “It’s my treat, y’know. As thanks for putting up with me all this time.”

“No, the pleasure’s been all mine.” (What Mako really wants to say is, _I’d love to see you again sometime, and not in the context of glee club or Shakespeare or anything like that_.)

“Seriously, dude,” Wu replies, and the way _dude_ collides with Mako’s ribcage is hard enough to leave a bruise. “I’ve really enjoyed this, y’know? Just being able to work with someone like you.”

Mako’s heart thumps even harder.

( _Is that a confession?_ )

( _Error: 404 Not Found_.)

(... _Right_. _Of course_.)

—it’s not a confession, of course, but Mako takes a moment just to pretend it is. That in a perfect world, Oscar and Alfred did end up eloping and running away together with their happy ending. But reality doesn’t work like that, and Mako mentally slaps himself (and his brain cell) when they finally leave the restaurant and head back to campus.

The night air is a bit chilly and Wu’s shivering up a storm, and Mako pulls off his scarf and drapes it around Wu’s neck without a second thought, marvelling at how the red complements the green in Wu’s eyes under the dim glow of the streetlights.

“Uh, thanks?” Wu grins bashfully at Mako, and Mako wonders if the streetlights are concealing his blush.

On the walk back to campus, Mako decides the best course of action is to look at anything besides Wu to save his poor, tachycardic heart from working overtime. In the distance, Mako can see a couple walking in front of them, their hands laced together as the taller one points out something and guffaws loudly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

( _Huh_. Mako thinks that there’s something oddly familiar about that laugh.)

It isn’t until the couple turns the corner that Mako’s eyes bug out of his skull. _No way. There is no way that_ —

“ _Oh my spirits_ ,” Wu hisses from somewhere past Mako’s shoulder. “Did you see that?”

Professor Huo is walking in front of them, arm in arm with the one, the only darling of the engineering department: Professor Qanik.

Mako is absolutely certain that Professor Huo’s the kind of person to keep his personal relationships under wraps, and he can’t help but feel oddly guilty seeing his lit professor in such a private moment.

(When Professor Qanik leans down and kisses Professor Huo, Mako feels even worse and wonders if a nice bottle of champagne or an Edible Arrangements will be enough to satiate his own guilt at seeing his professor on a date with his husband in public.)

Wu is shifting nervously at Mako’s side, and Mako _knows_ that he’s about to go into full-blown hysterics or something about the fabled professors being together, so Mako does the next best thing and drags Wu into the nearest alleyway.

“ _What’s going on_ —”

“Shh.” Mako raises a finger to Wu’s lips without thinking. “For Agni’s sake, _shh_.”

(Wu, to his credit, shuts up almost immediately.)

The two of them stand there, chest to chest, Mako staring at the brick wall right in front of him and _no, definitely not looking at the pretty boy right in front of you_ because there are way too many thoughts and emotions running through his head right now and he doesn’t have time to sort them out _at all_ , especially with Wu standing right in front of him. All Mako wants to do is go home, curl up on his bed, and write sappy Hallmark-worthy poetry until sleep overtakes him.

After a few tense minutes of Wu’s heart pounding so loudly that Mako can feel it in his own chest, Mako finally peeks around the corner. The two professors have disappeared, and the coast is finally clear for Mako to gingerly extract himself from his awkward position with Wu against the wall before walking back to campus.

“So, uh.” Mako scratches his head when they arrive at Wu’s apartment, scrambling to find anything to make the moment last that much longer. “The sushi was great.”

( _Really? Is that the best you could come up with?_ )

“Oh!” Wu brightens up, twisting his hands in Mako’s scarf around his neck like it’s second nature, and Mako wonders how his frayed, red scarf could look so perfect around Wu. “Yeah! The sushi is phenomenal, right? And all of it is sustainably sourced, so no worries about environmental stuff, y’know! Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Oh, yeah, before I forget—” Wu pauses for a moment before reluctantly unwinding the scarf from around his neck and handing it back to Mako. “Thanks for the scarf.”

 _You keep it_ , Mako wants to say, but he doesn’t. He just takes back the scarf and folds it carefully over his arm. “It’s no problem at all.”

“I guess I’ll see you on Monday?” Wu’s voice is so hopeful, Mako thinks that he’s asking about going out to eat again. His heart sinks when he realizes that Wu’s just talking about meeting up to work on the project, because why else would Wu want to meet up with someone like him?

“Yeah, see you on Monday,” Mako mutters before stumbling down the steps and making a beeline for his apartment. He doesn’t want to stick around for one second more.

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

_to alfred:_

_i only see you  
_ _a bright light in my night sky  
_ _we walk together_

_\- oscar_

\- - - - - -

_from patroclus, with love:_

_you held my hand today, and i did blush  
_ _(though i am adamant it was the chill)  
_ _your hands were warm as we walked in a hush  
_ _i felt like time itself was standing still_

_you wrapped your scarf around me when i shook  
_ _and i could swear this all felt like a spell  
_ _like something straight out of a romance book  
_ _i think this was a real-life fairy tale_

_i wish there was some way i could tell you  
_ _to say how much you really mean to me  
_ _i don’t believe in fate, or on a whim  
_ _but something tells me to let go, be free_

_i’m falling for you all over again  
_ _i’ll be quiet, and spare myself the pain_

It’s all over now.

Well, not quite. Yes, it’s the last time that they’re meeting up for the project, but Mako still holds on to the hope that something, anything will happen. And if not, well, then maybe it’s Fate’s way of telling him not to hold on to something that never existed in the first place. The uncertainty looms over him with an ominous energy, and Mako has a hard time sleeping that night. He tosses and turns so often as thoughts race through his head that he ends up staying up half the night working on a random assignment that isn’t even due for two weeks in an effort to fall asleep.

News flash: it doesn’t work. And when Mako arrives at the usual common room in the afternoon, he’s sporting a cup of coffee in one hand and the remnants of his sanity in the other. He knows that drinking coffee now is a terrible idea (especially considering that he's barely subsisting on two hours of sleep), but the caffeine is doing wonders for his nerves.

Mako slides into a chair and pulls out his laptop and a notebook. The laptop goes on the table and the notebook goes straight in his lap, a well-worn Moleskine that Mako got from Bolin as a high school graduation gift a few years back. The cover is faded, and it cracks when Mako flips it open to a fresh page.

(And before you ask, _yes_. This is where Mako writes his sappy poetry, partially because he’s paranoid that someone will hack into his laptop and read his private things, and partially because he wants an excuse to practice his penmanship.)

Ten minutes later and Wu still hasn’t shown up, but Mako isn’t bothered. He’s too busy finagling syllables on his fingers to pay attention to anything else. Personally, Mako enjoys the challenge of trying to fit in all his emotions into a mere seventeen syllables. It’s like compartmentalizing, but more poetic, and honestly: who knew that haiku would be so difficult?

( _Don’t you mean,_ Wu _knew?_ His brain cell helpfully supplies.)

( _Agni, don’t make me yeet you out of my brain_.)

( _But then you won’t have any more brain cells left_.)

( _That’s true_.)

( _At least this is the last time you have to deal with Wu_.)

( _But I don’t want it to be the last time_.)

( _Fair enough_.)

Energy and exhaustion continue their ceaseless battle in Mako’s sleep-deprived mind—and unfortunately, exhaustion wins out. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Mako’s eyelids to droop, his head to slump down as he uses the last of his energy to push his notebook aside and take off his glasses before he blissfully loses consciousness. A small nap wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Except the nap comes back to bite him in the ass when Mako is suddenly startled awake by a gasp. He almost shoots out of his chair, shaking hands scrambling to shove on his glasses, frenzied eyes darting back and forth until they pinpoint their target—

Wu.

(The thought process kicks in: Wu → Wu is in this room → Wu is in this room, and he is holding—ERROR: PREMATURE TERMINATION.)

Wu is holding the fucking notebook in his hands, the one that has Mako’s—

 _Good grief_.

Wu is holding Mako’s fucking notebook in his hands, which means that Wu has most definitely read Mako’s shitty poetry _about him_.

( _ATTENTION_ , Mako’s brain cell roars to life. _ATTENTION PLEASE: PASSENGERS TRAVELLING WITH A ONE-WAY TICKET TO HUMILIATION HELL, PLEASE CHANGE TRAINS AT THIS STATION_.)

Mako feels like he’s actually past the point of fainting, the combination of adrenaline and caffeine doing all sorts of weird twists and ollies in the pit of his stomach.

( _Agni, if I don’t live to see graduation, please let Bolin know how much I love him_.)

So Mako’s just sitting there, utterly mortified, his face stained with the reddest blush known to mankind, his brain cell working overtime to brainstorm the easiest way to escape from this entire situation with his reputation (and his pride) relatively intact. Not that he has any pride at all now, because Wu knows.

Wu knows that he’s Oscar.

Wu knows that Mako’s been burning that torch for him since freshman year.

And Wu knows that he needs to find the best way to let Mako down gently, because there’s no way in the spirit realm that Wu’s going to reciprocate whatever Mako’s feeling right now, all guilt and turmoil and absolute chaos roaming rampant in his mind as he tries to figure out what to do—what to _say_ , even—to make this situation less awkward.

Wu is surprisingly silent, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks up at Mako, then looks down at the notebook, then up at Mako again, an indescribable look on his face.

Mako braces himself for the worst.

But nothing can prepare Mako for what comes next. He watches, dumbfounded, as Wu bends down and opens his own backpack, papers shuffling around noisily when Wu pulls out a ratty looking notepad and thrusts it in Mako’s direction with trembling hands.

_What?_

Mako flips open the notepad, and you can literally hear a pin drop in the room.

In between the stylized notes for “Trojan War: Fact or Fiction?” and “Introduction to Diplomatic Negotiations”, Mako spies a line of red cursive doodled in the margins. He can barely make out the words, but they’re there. Oh, they’re definitely there.

It’s a fragment of a sonnet—and not just any old sonnet. No, Mako recognizes the sonnet from his brief scrolling through Whole Lava Love.

“You’re Patroclus?” Mako barely manages to mumble out loud, watching as Wu’s face turns a curious shade of crimson on the spectrum between embarrassment and full-out mortification.

“And if I am?” Wu’s voice sounds so hesitant, it takes all of Mako’s willpower not to reach out to wrap him in a hug, to reassure him that _yes, your poetry is fantastic_ , that _I’ve been waiting for you since forever_.

“Then you’re an idiot,” Mako says, before adding, “and I’m an idiot, too, because of _course_ , we’ve been _writing fucking poetry to each other the entire time_.”

Wu’s eyes go round. “Holy _shit_.”

**WHOLE LAVA LOVE**

for everyone who was curious about what happened with the poets, i can tell you that patroclus found his achilles, oscar found his alfred, and all is right with the world. ~~although i will strive to remind them to be more aware of their audience in the future. read the room, you two.  
~~signed, oscar wilde’s ex-girlfriend  
p.s. yes, i am happily taken.  
p.p.s. yes, those two are disgustingly happy together.  
p.p.p.s. did any of you catch professor qanik sneaking in and making googly eyes at professor huo during the annual english department luncheon? or was that just me?  
p.p.p.p.s. the person who won the “how long until they realize?” bet, feel free to venmo me @asami_sato.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to let me know what you think!


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